The Morning After
by ti2ger003
Summary: My take on the morning after the now-infamous ending to episode 100, from multiple points of view.
1. Chapter One: In the Elevator

**I was watching some _Bones_ episodes and realised that, well, Booth lives on the THIRD floor of his building. Not the sixth. So here's the revised version, just because I HATE being inaccurate (no matter how small the inaccuracy is. :P )**

**Still totally contains spoilers for the 100th episode (duh), and still rated T for the occasional four-letter-word. :)  
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Chapter One—In the Elevator**

I live down the hall from an FBI Agent. Damned if it isn't the craziest place I've lived, either.

Like last night. Last night, I'm coming home from Toledo—business trip, you know how it is—on this red-eye flight, and who do I run into in the elevator?

Special Agent Seeley Booth. My neighbor, the FBI Agent. Completely wasted.

Really, he was. And I was a bartender for a while there, so I've seen drunk. But that… Booth was wasted. Slobbering drunk. If I were still a bartender, I would've stopped serving him a LOOONG time ago.

Unfortunately, most bartenders around here are too concerned with emptying people's pockets than the general welfare of their clients. Which is why I'm not a bartender anymore.

(Well, that and the incident that shall-not-be-mentioned three years ago involving my boss and a bottle of gin… But we're not gonna go there.)

Anyway, I'm in the elevator, trying to will it to go faster because I live on the third floor and that elevator is the slowest damn thing on Earth, when I realize I'm not the only person in the thing. Oh, no. Booth's there, looking like someone's just run over his dog and laughed in his face about it, talking. (Not that he has a dog. I have it on good authority that the only pets he's got are a couple of goldfish named Philbert (not Filbert) and Dr. Bones. Don't ask me where the names are from, because I dunno. I just feed 'em when he's on vacation.)

Not to me, though. No, he's talking to the elevator doors. Honest to God. I thought I was hallucinating. I think _he_ was, at least. Because, you know, guys like Booth generally don't talk to elevator doors. Or call them "Sweets". And whatever "Sweets" was saying was really pissing him off.

I didn't get all of it—Booth's not the most articulate person wasted, generally—but I gathered that he'd either tried to date his pet goldfish (the one named Dr. Bones) or propositioned a skeleton. Either way, they told him no. He was trying to talk it through with the elevator doors, I think. Evidently, those elevator doors (or "Sweets". Whichever you prefer) were the ones that gave him the idea to proposition that skeleton in the first place. And now that he'd gotten turned down, he was mad and more than a little depressed.

Which is, you know, odd, because I've seen Booth drunk a couple of times (the most recent being after he took me out for a few rounds after my ex-boyfriend tried to break into my apartment), and he's generally a very happy drunk.

"I took that damn gamble, Sweets," he told the elevator rather pitifully as the elevator _finally_ shuddered to a stop. "I did what you said. And she couldn't. Wouldn't. Won't."

Whatever the poor man propositioned, it seemed to have really hit him below the belt. I felt really, pitifully sorry for the guy, but it hit me that whatever his problem was, it was probably a result of his drinking. I mean, people don't go around chatting up goldfish or skeletons while stone-cold sober, you know. Hopefully.

Sometimes I seriously worry about my neighbor's sanity.


	2. Chapter Two: On the Couch

**Well, you told me my last chapter was actually quite good and needed more to go with it, so here's chapter two, from the POV of everyone's favorite (and hungover) FBI Agent.**

**Oh, and because I completely forgot last chapter: Don't own it. Please don't sue me. :)  
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Chapter Two—On The Couch**

The morning after Bones told me she couldn't be in a relationship with me, I woke up because hippos were using my skull as a trampoline.

Metaphorically speaking, of course. I mean, hippos weren't _actually_ jumping up and down on my skull. 'Cause then I'd be dead.

God, Bones is getting to me. Now I'm explaining metaphors to myself.

Anyway, back to the metaphorical hippos. Quickly deducing (because I'm not an idiot) that I was suffering from the mother of all hangovers, I prescribed to myself the tried-and-true method of getting rid of such hangovers—I rolled over in bed and… promptly fell on the floor.

Dammit. I'd passed out on the couch again. No wonder my back was screwed up. Every time I got myself drunk, I decided the couch was the perfect place to pass out on.

It was around this time that someone started banging on my door. I glanced at my watch—somehow, I'd managed to not lose a single article of clothing the night before. I suppose it was God's way of apologizing for screwing my heart over and spitting it out.

(I still don't know what happened to my favorite crazy tie, though. Or my polar bear boxers. But that's a completely different story.)

Ten thirty-two. _Damn. It's probably Sweets, wondering what the hell happened last night. And why I didn't show up to work this morning._

_Well, I'll just let him wonder. Serves him right after last night._

_Heh. That rhymed. Cool._

I decided to stay on the floor, think of other rhyming sentences, and pray to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that Sweets would go away and quick trying to break my door down.

Five minutes later, though, the kid showed no signs of stopping. _You have to give him credit, Booth. He is nothing if not persistent._

Well, that was just_ peachy_. Now my inner voice sounded like Bones.

There was only one thing for it: a drink.

Sighing, I got up from the floor—slowly, because the room wouldn't stop tilting—and (again slowly) made my way to the kitchen. I had beer in the fridge. And if I didn't, I could always stick my head in the freezer to sober up.

I wasn't sure which course of action was better.

That was when I heard the voices. Not mental, I-have-a-brain-tumor-that's-driving-me-insane voices, but actual, someone-is-talking-in-the-hallway-outside-my-apartment voices.

More specifically, I heard my neighbor's voice. Sarah Hart from across the hall, to be exact. The lady who babysits Parker sometimes and who feeds my goldfish when I'm not around.

"He's probably dead to the world right now," Sarah was saying. "He was pretty long gone last night."

"Dead?" Bones' voice asked. If I hadn't been hungover and if I hadn't known better, I would've thought she sounded slightly scared. But I knew better, and I _was _hungover, so she was probably just confused.

Hell, _I _was confused. What was _Bones_ doing bashing in my door? She had my spare key.

And after last night, I kind of figured she'd already be on a plane to Madagascar or some other obscure place with no cell coverage. Because if she ran to Guatemala after I had a coma-induced delusion that I was married to her, God only knew where she'd go now that I'd told her I was in Honest-to-God love with her.

"Yeah, I don't think I've ever seen anyone as drunk as he was last night," Sarah replied. "From what I heard him tell the elevator doors, I think he tried to proposition a skeleton. That or he asked his goldfish out on a date. Either way, it ended badly."

I stopped walking towards the kitchen at that. _I don't remember seeing Sarah last night. Or propositioning a skeleton._

_But then, I don't really remember much of last night._

"Excuse me?" Bones asked. This time, her voice sounded incredulous. It was the tone she used with me when I told her she couldn't go with me to arrest some perp, or when I told her to stay behind when we were entering a building. "A skeleton?"

"I guess. I mean, I dunno what else he would've been asking out. The only thing I know called Bones is his pet goldfish."

_Shit. I told Sarah about Sweets' challenge?_

_I must've had more than I thought._

"Bones?" Bones asked faintly.

I had a feeling Sarah nodded at that. "Bones," she affirmed. "He seemed pretty damn crushed over it, too, which is why I think he had a bit too much to drink. Usually, Booth's a very happy drunk."

I didn't want to hear anything else. I turned around and headed to the bedroom, trying to decide if I should shoot Sarah for telling Bones that I got slobbering drunk last night and that I named my goldfish after her, myself for thinking I actually had a chance in Hell with Bones, or Sweets for making me hope I did, in fact, have a chance in Hell (especially after telling me that my love for Bones was a result of some doctors drilling into my skull.)

(Because trust me. That is the_ last_ thing anyone who thinks they're in love wants to hear. "Sorry, man, but it's not love—it's your brain playing tricks on yourself.")

(Yeah. That was _great_.)

I collapsed face-down onto my bed, not even trying to breathe. With any luck, my pillow would smother me in my sleep.

Yeah, I know. I'm pathetic. Don't tell anyone.

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**Chapter Two's down! How'd you like it? :) I'll never know if you don't tell me, you know! :P (Yes, that was a blatant review beg. Don't make me do it again. :D )**


	3. Chapter Three: Over the Phone

**A/N: So sorry for the delay! Angela and Brennan are two of the hardest characters for me to write, and I had a lot of school stuff in the way. :) Pwease, pwetty pwease forgive me! **

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Chapter Three- Over the Phone**

I was having a very nice dream involving me, Jack, and a game of strip poker (don't judge me—just because we broke up doesn't mean a girl can't fantasize) when he started ringing.

Really. I thought I was going insane for a minute there.

And then I realized that _he_ wasn't ringing—the phone was. I groped for the phone without opening my eyes. Whoever was calling had better have a damn good reason for waking me up from such a nice dream.

"'Lo?"

"Ange?" Bren's voice asked hesitantly.

_Bren? What's she calling for?_ "Yeah," I replied, opening my eyes and immediately regretting it. The light in the hallway was on. (Note to self: next time, keep the strawberry mimosas to a minimum.) "I'm here. What's up?"

"I-I think I crushed Booth's heart," she said miserably.

"_Broke_, Bren. It's a—_WHAT?!?_"

If I wasn't awake before, I certainly was now. _What do you mean, you broke Booth's heart? How could you do that? Did you get engaged to Hacker or something?_

"I think I crushed Booth's heart," she repeated. It sounded like she'd been crying. "We-we told Sweets about our first case together, and-and, well, Sweets was really upset—I don't understand why—and he kept talking about building and breaking dams and gambling and..." her voice trailed off.

"And what, sweetie?"

Bren muttered something that I couldn't understand._  
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"Didn't _quite_ catch that, Bren. What did Booth's favorite twelve-year-old say?"

"Sweets challenged Booth to break the cycle."

It really was impressive, the way Bren could make such an innocent, simple sentence sound like a death knell. It made me want to track down Sweets and kill him, and I didn't even know what he'd done yet.

"What cycle?" _If I'm gonna kill him, I might as well know what for._

"Apparently, Sweets thought that we'd been punishing ourselves or something because we kissed, but"—"_WHAT?!?_"

I'd officially lost my mind. Bren and Booth hadn't kissed. There was no freaking way they'd kissed. I would've known. Neither of them would've been able to hide it. They would've started making like rabbits in the Egyptology exhibit. Booth would _never_ have stopped undressing Bren with his eyes.

"Booth and I _might_ have had one too many tequila shots, and we _might_ have kissed... once. Six years ago."

"Oh. My. _God_, Bren! How did I not _know _this?!? _When_?!?"

"I told you. Six years ago."

"But you and Booth _hated_ each other six years... Omigod. You had sex with Booth, didn't you?" No _wonder_ they didn't talk for a year. They had sex and couldn't deal with the repercussions.

"No, Ange. I did not have sex with Booth. We simply _kissed_." Bren sounded vaguely annoyed. "And even if we had, it's none of your business."

"Was it a good kiss? Was tongue involved? Was"—"Ange!" Bren burst out. "I need your help!"

"With what? You've already kissed him twice. Just suck it up, go over to his apartment, and climb into bed with him. I'm sure he's up for it." I smiled wickedly. _That_ was a moment I'd kill to see—Brennan climbing into bed with Booth.

"It's not that _simple_, Ange," Bren replied, still sounding annoyed. Now, though, it was mixed with sadness. "After we left Sweets' office… I guess Booth took Sweets up on the challenge, because he-he kissed me and-and said he wanted to g-give us a chance, a-and I…" she trailed off, sniffling. I was out of bed and groping for the Advil in a flash. Temperance Brennan did not _sniffle_. That was for lesser beings.

So the fact that she was, in fact, _sniffling_ was probably a sign of the apocalypse. Or that she really had hurt Booth. (Which, granted, is pretty much the same thing. But still.)

"Yeah?" I prompted, dry-swallowing two pills. I stood up, squinting my eyes against the light, and made my way to the kitchen. If I was going to listen to Bren sniffle, I was going to do it completely sober.

"I tuh-told him I-I couldn't chuh-change, a-and he l-looked so _sad_, Ange! A-and I wanted to take it all back, but it was too luh-late, and-and"—"Calm down, Bren. Everything's gonna be alright. Just tell me what happened, and we'll figure something out. Okay?" I gulped down a water and searched for my keys. I'd be sober enough to drive soon.

"I think i-it's too late for a-anything, Ange," Bren protested. "I-I really th-think I ruined a-any chance w-we may have had!"

Oh, this was bad. Bren was actually admitting that she and Booth might have had something. Not only that, but she thought that whatever she had done was bad enough to kill anything that might have been there.

There wasn't any time to sober up. I'd just call a cab.

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**Thanks for reading! You wanna know what comes next? **

**REALLY?**

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**(What??! You really thought I'd spill what was coming up next? :P )  
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	4. Chapter Four: In the Hallway

**As mentioned in Chapter 1... I realised that I'd placed Booth's apartment three floors higher than it actually is, and because I'm a bit OCD when it comes to things like this... here's the revision. :P**

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**Chapter 4—In the Hallway**

The only reason I was knocking on Booth's door was because I didn't have my key.

The only reason I didn't have my key was because Booth had left a drunken message on my answering machine the night before, and I wanted to rid myself of anything that directly reminded me of him. At least until Monday.

The only reason I was standing outside Booth's apartment was blackmail. And the only reason I was being blackmailed was because Angela had decided that Booth and I were "meant to be", and that "there was no way in hell" she was going to let us screw this up.

Suffice to say, knocking on Booth's door was the last thing I wanted to be doing just then. Preferably, I'd like to be on a flight to Panama (I knew an archeologist who'd invited me on a dig there), but really, _anywhere_ would be preferable to _there_.

But Angela had told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn't at least _try_ to talk to Booth, she was going to tell him about our whole conversation, including the fact that I'd practically experienced a mental breakdown, and that it was all because I was fairly certain I'd crushed—no, _broken_—his heart. And Angela can make almost anyone, including Booth, believe _anything_. It's actually slightly frightening.

I _knew_ Booth was in his apartment. I'd heard him groan rather loudly not two minutes ago. So why the hell was he not answering the door?

I knocked harder—though, granted, by now it wasn't so much "knocking" as "trying to break down the door". I was going to, too, if a young woman—I presumed it must have been a neighbor—entered the hallway, singing and sorting through her mail.

"_You say goodbye, and I say hello. Hello, hello! I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello. Hello, hello… _If you're looking for Booth, you should probably come back later."

"Excuse me?" Was Booth not in his apartment? Had I only imagined the groan?

The young woman—she couldn't have been older than twenty-six or twenty-seven—looked up from her mail. "He's probably dead to the world right now," she said in an explanatory tone. "He was pretty long gone last night."

"Dead?" My voice squeaked—actually _squeaked_—but I didn't care. Was Booth okay? He was fine when he dropped me off at my apartment last night. At least, I thought he'd been fine.

_Oh, my God. What happened?_

"Yeah, I don't think I've seen anyone as drunk as he was. From what I heard him tell the elevator doors, I think he tried to proposition a skeleton. That or he asked his goldfish out on a date. Either way, it ended badly."

_Booth propositioned a skeleton? What? _"Excuse me? A _skeleton?_" _Is she on drugs?_

I'd have to ask Booth about that. As soon as he answered the damn door, that is.

The woman shrugged again, her brown eyes clear and frank. "I guess. I mean, I dunno what else he would've been asking out. The only thing I know called Bones is his pet goldfish."

"Bones?" I couldn't believe it. Booth had named his _goldfish _after _me_?

His neighbor nodded, fishing a key out of her pocket. "Bones," she affirmed. "He seemed pretty damn crushed over it, too, which is why I think he had a bit too much to drink. Usually, Booth's a very happy drunk." She unlocked the door directly across from Booth's. "I don't think you're gonna get much outta him today," she said, opening the door. "He's probably passed out on his couch again. I'd just call him later, if I were you."

I nodded vaguely, still trying to comprehend what the woman had told me. Booth had gotten drunk last night—really drunk. (I already knew that—his message last night was proof enough.) He was so drunk that, apparently, he talked to the elevator doors, telling them that I, Bones, had turned him down. His neighbor, hearing this, thought that he'd just been drunk enough to proposition his goldfish. Why? His goldfish was named Bones.

I couldn't talk to Booth. Angela would most likely kill me, but I simply couldn't. The man had named his pet fish after me! His neighbor, who had no idea what happened last night, thought he was "pretty damn crushed" over it!

The door across the hall closed, and his neighbor continued singing. "_I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello. Hello, hello! I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello._"

I looked at Booth's door and made my decision. I'd talk to him on Monday. Angela would just have to live with my choice.

A minute later, I'd run down three flights of stairs and was scrambling into my car. "Well?" Angela prompted. "What happened?"

I couldn't look at her. "He named his goldfish Bones."

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**To read about the Monday after the infamous 100th episode, go to my profile page and click on _The Monday After_, in which logic takes a hike, everything hits the fan, and Garth Brooks, it turns out, is a dirty liar. :) Thanks for reading, and don't be a stranger- I love reviews! ;)**


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